


Done Talking

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zählt
Genre: Angry Sex, Bring Back The Porn Challenge, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 11:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20488052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: After Marc dumps him, Tom drops by for a final goodbye.





	Done Talking

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tie-in with an old WIP, [ Fire & Ice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/201424/chapters/298448), but can be read as a standalone. Unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine (feel free to point them out).

***

Marc was almost done packing when there was a knock on the door, sharp and business-like. He took a deep breath and went to answer it.

Tom shouldered past him without looking at him; stopped for a moment when he saw the open suitcases, the neatly folded sweaters, the choreography folders stacked by Marc’s laptop bag. His lip curled. 

“Leaving already?”

Marc swallowed hard and nodded. “There’s a flight later tonight. It seemed the best way to go.”

“Right. Yeah. Efficient. Tidy. We wouldn’t want a mess.” Tom bit each word off harshly, a sneering tone in his voice that sounded so wrong it made Marc want to flinch. 

He squared his shoulders instead, made himself brace against the fury he had so richly earned. “Tom, when we’ve had some time and when we’re both ready to talk-”

“Fuck you. You’re done talking. And I’m done listening to you.”

Tom had whirled around to face him and moved in so suddenly that Marc had his hands half-raised before he knew it, bracing for impact. But Tom didn’t hit him. He shoved him backwards, against the kitchen island, crowding into Marc’s space. Marc only had one quick glimpse of Tom’s blazing blue eyes before Tom dropped to his knees.

Marc recoiled and tried to fend off the hands that tore at his belt. “Tom, no. What are you…”

“Shut the fuck up.” It was a snarl, a gust of hot breath against his crotch. Marc raised his hands, stunned and, despite his own appalled alarm, responding. His cock didn’t care that this was wrong, that they were over, that Tom had never touched him without warmth or affection or laughter. His body hadn’t learned yet that his mind had severed them.

He flushed with shame when Tom pulled his trousers down, exposing his swelling erection. 

“Tom. Seriously. We…”

“I said shut _up_,” Tom hissed, yanked down his briefs and took him in his mouth without the least attempt at preliminaries. The protest Marc had been about to voice died on his tongue; what came out instead was a startled moan.

Tom didn’t tease or build up, the way he usually did. None of the slow, sweet sucks or swirling licks that used to drive Marc crazy. He swallowed him down, almost to the back of his throat on the first plunge, and set a swift, brutal pace that had Marc’s head reeling and made him forget his protestations. 

It was too late anyway, everything fucked up beyond repair, so he gave up and let Tom have him. Let him work his lips up and down Marc’s shaft, let him control the pace, let him work through whatever punishment or twisted reminder this was.

Because it _did_ make him remember, that was the worst thing. It made him remember Tom trying this for the first time, still clumsy and sloppy with it, laughing halfway through and almost choking, grinning at Marc when he cupped his hand around Tom’s cheek and told him, breathlessly, to take it slow. It made him remember the sweet awkwardness of it, and Tom’s stubborn determination taking over. The way his eyes had gone wide when Marc had pulled out to come, not wanting to do it in his mouth the first time; the way he’d watched avidly as Marc splattered on his chest instead; the way his hand had gone immediately to his own straining cock.

Tom was still fully dressed. He wasn’t touching himself, and from this angle Marc couldn’t tell if he was even hard. That, too, was wrong; Tom almost always got turned on by doing this, could never refrain from jerking off while sucking cock. 

His eyes were closed as well. His mouth was hot and demanding, deceptively welcoming, but his entire face was shut off, rejecting every moment even as he took Marc deep. 

Marc let that go too. He dug his hands into Tom’s wild curls and held his head in place as he fucked his mouth, going deep on every thrust. Tom’s hands were digging into his hips. Marc couldn’t tell if Tom was fighting or encouraging him; he only knew that his mouth was working furiously, sucking hard, his cheeks hollowing around Marc’s cock, and that had to be enough. 

He let himself go, gave himself up to the frantic pulls, the heat of Tom’s mouth surrounding him. The head of his cock slipped into the back of Tom’s throat on every thrust, and the rippling motion of Tom’s convulsive swallowing tipped him over the edge. He came so hard it was almost painful, a sudden gush of come flooding Tom’s mouth, so much he felt Tom gag. He tried to pull back, but Tom made an angry noise, pinned him in place and swallowed him down. After a few seconds Marc started wincing, his cock quickly becoming over-sensitive. Cool air hit his heated flesh as Tom let him slip from his mouth.

Marc stood with knees shaking and eyes squeezed shut, relearning how to breathe. 

The blood was still pounding in his ears when Tom rose from his knees. Marc forced his eyes open. Tom’s lips were red and swollen, still wet with come, his pale cheeks flushed, tousled curls falling into his face. He looked debauched and gorgeous, like some fallen pre-Raphaelite angel, but his eyes were cool and remote, their expression chilling Marc to the bone.

“You wrecked us,” he said, in a voice Marc had never heard from him. “_You_ did that. I would have” – he broke off, sucked in a breath, and narrowed his eyes. “Never mind. A happy memory for the road. Enjoy.” The fury was gone, leeching all warmth from those deep blue eyes. With his lips compressed and that haughty mask in place, he looked so much like Isabelle that it was eerie. 

Marc didn’t move. Not when Tom reached past him to drop his keys with a clatter on the countertop, slapped down some papers next to them. Not when he moved in to brush his lips against Marc’s cheek. The kiss was fleeting, impersonal; the cooling trail of come it left on his skin burned like a brand. 

“Goodbye, lover,” Tom murmured in his ear, a chilly mockery of intimacy with something else humming underneath, some hoarse and broken thing that Marc refused to contemplate. 

Then he was gone. The door closed quietly, with a neat, efficient _click._ Marc was left standing with his trousers still around his ankles, his cock still throbbing with aftershocks. He tucked himself away with shaking fingers and glanced down at the papers Tom had slammed down. 

Tickets to Hamburg. First class. Two of them. The flight itinerary had a purchase date. A week ago. 

_Look, I don’t care_, Tom had said, laughing. _First chance you get a break, we’re going. I want to see your flat and meet your friends and fuck you in your own damn bed. It’s gonna happen, so don’t even argue._  
  
Marc took a deep breath, briefly squeezed shut his eyes. Reopened them.

_I did the right thing_, he told himself. _I did. It would not have worked. Not in the long term. It just wouldn’t._

Nobody argued. He was alone. 

That night, instead of catching his flight, he went to No. 7.


End file.
